Red Shirt Blues

He rubbed his eyes again and again. He found it very hard to digest the fact. Already his stomach had been misbehaving with him in its function of digestion for the past few days due to the hotel food, but this fact – well it was harder to digest.

The fact was that he needed to grab a contract from a client for painting a building, and he had asked his wife to pick up a new shirt for this purpose. He failed to understand what nefarious intentions she had in mind – but she had picked out a RED SHIRT for his meeting with the client. RED.

Though he carried out a thorough analysis of the shirt from various angles, rubbed the sleepiness from his eyes and even put on his glasses – he put the glasses on and stared at it, he took off his glasses and attempted in vain to flap out the color, but no. A red shirt is what he had. Bright, stubborn red.

He sighed and put it on. In front of the mirror, he looked like some out-of-work clown who wanted to scare the pants off the elite fashion designers in town.

“Wow, you look phenomenal!” Cried his wife cheerily.

“Phenomenal enough to be arrested for blinding a few unsuspecting humans on the road!” he grumbled.

“Oh, come on! It’s not that bad. Red is the color of bricks. And you’re the one who’s going to paint the bricks right?”

Wow, if there ever was an award for crappy logic, there would be no second guesses to whom that would go to, thought he.

With a worried disposition he mounted his bicycle and wobbled unsteadily. But as the breeze conditioned his face, he soon forgot about the monstrosity that was personified by the red shirt.

The leaves that passed him by as he looked skyward while cycling; the fresh breeze; he could see the leaves disappearing, then as he pedaled on the sky appearing from the greenery of the leaves.

Suddenly, he saw a blob of white descending towards him at high velocity. Before his nature-enjoying mind could comprehend what this might be, the black, feathered creator of the white blob (commonly addressed ‘crow’) had delivered a small lump of white substance (commonly addressed as bird shit) on to his red shirt.

The angle at which the crow had delivered its stuff was deadly in its accuracy and now, the red shirt sported a tinge of white on it.

Now this really perturbed our hero; he was not too happy with the red shirt to begin with, and now his shirt also sported a rather freaky white stain, adding to his out-of-work clown façade. As he stopped at a local tea kadai to get a water packet to try and clean off the stain.

In the meantime, a mama whose house happened to be right opposite the tea kadai was eagerly anticipating someone to drop by… He was talking on his mobile phone –

“Aan, Shenbagam mami, where is your son? I have been waiting for him for the past 20 minutes. I want to introduce him to my daughter.. As I have been saying, they will make a very good couple.”

“I know mama, he is on his way. He is so eco friendly so he will be coming there by cycle. You can identify him by his Red Shirt. He might initially be scared about the whole concept of marriage. Please talk to him slowly and make him understand the importance of all this!”

“Yes sure… Oh I think I see him now! He is wearing the red shirt and coming on a cycle! I will go and bring him in!”

Saying so the mama rushed forward and grabbed our hero, who was just buying a water packet to cleanse the crow shit.

“Come come maaplai! Oh dear, this is not good.. These crows are always a menace! Come in, come in! We’ll get it off in a jiffy!”

Now our hero was dumbstruck and in the beginning, his reaction was limited to – “Err?!?!?!?!” but then he realized that some nutty guy was actually offering to get the stain off his shirt; so he followed the mama.

“Here, here, have some fresh filter coffee. My daughter only made it!”

The coffee turned out to be extremely sugary, horrendous tasting, nearly tongue eliminating. God save the guy who marries that girl, thought our hero. And then the mama spoke and threw in a bombshell which was far worse than the coffee –

“Your mother and I have decided it’s time for you to marry my daughter.”

Our hero choked and writhed uncontrollably; the coffee cup fell from his hand; he was almost shivering. The prospect of two wives was making him dizzy.
“Maaplai, maaplai! What happened!”

“Err.. I am not a maaplai. In fact, I’m already married. Not happily married or anything, but married nonetheless!”

“Oh, you can’t wriggle out so easily maaplai. Your mom told me you might be fickle minded about this…”

At this point of time, our hero was fuming over the ancient practices of our ancestors and swearing. The women had the yellow thread and toe ring (thaali and metti) to prove that they were married. How the hell do men prove it?!

“Mama, whatever it is, I need to take your daughter out for a drink together and have a one night stand with her before deciding if she can be my life partner.”

Mama suddenly entered palpitation mode. It was his turn to give the drama like reactions.

“What? Drink ah? Night ah! Abacharam, abacharam!” (A classic tamil expression ruthlessly condemning all things sweet and pure such as drinking, smoking, and other enjoyable activities)

“Yea, think about it and let me know. Now if you’ll excuse me…” Saying so, our hero made a hasty exit.

Just when he was still worried about the white stain on his red shirt, he was accosted by a couple of villagers who were pretty excited to see him.

“Ayya!! Vanakkam Ayya! You are the champ right?”

Oh dear, here we go again. What is it this time?

“No, I am not a champ. I am probably the champ of Loserism, but hell, I’m dead sure that’s not who you are looking for.”

The two village get up guys were talking in strange dialects excitedly.

“Saar, you are the champ! Red shirt, white mark… They are the colors of our organization!”

“What freaking mark you doofus! This is a crow shit stain!”

“No no, you are coming with us now! We are going for the Jallikattu! You are the Jallikattu champ right… Yes, yes we were told that you didn’t like publicity. Saar come on, come with us!”

Amidst cries and protests of “You bunch of thick headed freaks! Let me go or I’m gonna ensure a bull’s butt is thrust in your face!”, our hero was carried into a cleverly concealed ground, where about six to seven others were waiting with eager faces. Villager number one mumbled with reverence, “Wow, did you hear our champ abuse us? Even his abuse is related to bulls!”

In the midst of the illegal jallikattu ground stood our hero, dust gathering at his sweaty forehead. He had to admit that this gave him a very tamil hero like feel, though how he ever got himself into this mess was beyond comprehension.

The bull looked like he was going to do some serious damage. Our hero wondered what sin he had committed in his past life. A small lump was forming in his throat. With an unmatched suddenness, the accursed bull charged towards our hero in the red shirt; this was when our hero realized that he was wearing the color RED!

Hero quickly took off his shirt and threw it far away. Bull followed the flying shirt for a while. In the meantime, our hero was rapidly trying to make an exit from the other side. The villagers were grumbling amongst themselves…

“Isn’t it shameful that our champ has a potbelly? It doesn’t look like he is a champion at all! And to think we came all the way to the city for this! Look how he is running from the bull!”

It was then that some background music seemed to be emanating from the ground.
“Eh like a lion, like a lion my darling grandson is walking….” Some old hag seemed to be singing…

A heavily muscled individual with attitude entered the ring. The TRUE CHAMP had arrived, much to the cheering and applause of the crowd. Now this was a champion!
Just 15 minutes later, our hero was given back his crow crap stained shirt, and the champ who had just tamed a bull was laughing in his face…

“Hahaha! How could they think someone like you was the champ? You don’t even have the qualities to be the guy who cleans out the bull’s dung!”

“Err.. Thank you? I’ve really got to go, Mr. Champ. Thank you for the timely entry, failing which I would’ve made an exit from the world itself!”

“What, where are you going? You need to have lunch! Come here man; try some of this fish kozhambu. It’s unbelievable!”

“No, no, I’ve got to be leaving…”

“I insist!”

“No no, I’m leaaaaaaavvvv” At this point of time, the degree of ‘horribility’ of our hero’s situation deepened. The fish kozhambu had spilt on his red shirt. Our hero’s life suddenly started moving in slow motion; “Nooooooooooo!” He cried.

Rrrrrrrrrrr…. (Reel is winding at normal speed now and Fast forwarding)

Location – Client’s building site.

One of our hero’s competitors was wearing an expensive business suit.

Another was wearing a well pressed formal shirt.

And our hero, well, nothing can be said about his impeccable red shirt with a white crow crap stain; it was exquisite in its design. And while the other competitors smelt of expensive perfume, our hero’s scent was unmistakable and unmaskable – the scent of the fish kozhambu on his shirt!

The client came outside adorned with a white dhoti, white shirt, heavy gold chain, ridiculously huge gold ring and an uninterested attitude. The competitors lined up… They would be questioned in depth about their quotes separately. But wait! What’s this? The client suddenly sniffed something so divine…

Something so familiar… Something out of this world… His grandmom’s Fish Kuzhambu?!?!?! But how was it possible here? Oh my God, that man in the red shirt… He was the man!

The client’s eyes were watering.

“Thambi, come here. Thambi, let me get a whiff of you. You smell brilliant!” Saying so, the client hugged our hero.

“My granny…” He said and sobbed!!

Rrrrrrrrrrr…. (Reel is fast forwarding)

“Wife, you are not going to believe what happened.”

“Who cares? Did you get the contract or not?”

“Yes I did, and through the most unbelievable series of events!”

“Thank God you clinched it! See I told you the RED SHIRT would work! What color did the client want you to paint the building?”

“RED.”

Psychoware -I

The software engineer had his intense, intelligent eyes fixated on a leaf which was being propelled around helplessly and aimlessly by the wind. He reveled in this simple sight by comparing his life to the course of this simple leaf – directionless, controlled by external factors, drifting without a sign into the nothingness…

‘Token number: Five, Zero.’
‘Token number: two, seven, eight.’
‘Token number: four, number: eight six … ‘

The metallic voices in the food court irked him like his ears were being torn apart by hot spikes. Droning on and on in his head, he detested these voices as they were inhuman, they were tormenting, monotonous and ruthless – how much ever you shouted they would never stop or they could never be outshouted, they could not be drowned. You HAD to submit to the power of the voice coming from the loudspeaker. In short, the whole thing reminded him of encounters with his boss.

He sat in front of the machine that had come to mean more than half his life. His PC. This is where the pointlessness of life began to raise its ugly head and entangle him within it. What was his life beyond the sickening lines of endless code? Meaningless mails which promised employees a great working experience and which fooled them into believing that they were living a great life flooded his inbox. He shift deleted every mail, and opened the forwards. Hahaha, the forwards. Now that was some fresh lease of life… By the way, how could life be so sad ass that forwards meant salvation?

What had he ever wanted in life? He didn’t know. He never did. He had been a wet sponge full of energy, ready to get into a literary career right after barely scraping out of school. Four years of engineering had squeezed this sponge dry; life’s juices, life’s essence had been squeezed out of him.
Lunch. The wind was still blowing hard, and the leaves were still flying around. Then his eyes fell on the tree. The tree which stood its ground irrespective of how much the wind howled. That was when he decided – he would be the tree. He would cease being the leaf.

‘Token number: four, one, six’
‘Token, two,:number, nine.’
‘Number: Token, six, … ‘

That was it. He could take it no longer. In front of him stood a bespectacled young chap, waiting for his token number to flash on the screen. He tapped the guy on the shoulder and when he turned, Rudran laid a resounding punch right on the bridge of that unsuspecting guy’s nose.

“AAaaaoouuu!” Wailed the guy in pain. Blood sprouted from his nose and by the time anything else could happen, shocked people moved away from the counter and kept watching what was happening. This gave ample time for Rudran to get the hell out of there without second thoughts.

He was panting and his lungs, greedy for air, kept him gasping till he regained composure. He was thrilled. Adrenaline pumped through him and gave him a powerful feeling, like he was the Lord of the world. That was how it all started.
The next day. Around 8 pm. The Food Court was deserted save for few. Even though the people were few, the token machines droned on. . .

‘Token number: eight, four,
‘Token,number seven,three, number.’
‘Token Nambarrr, eight, five, six, … ‘

The Psychoware had been booted in his head. His face acquired a contorted glow. His whole presence filled up with malicious satisfaction. He needed a place to perform his operations... Aha! He had spotted it. The broom closet which was conveniently pocketed away in a remote corner– you wouldn’t notice it if you were just walking by. This was the venue where he would take them.
“Err.. I would like to show you something really interesting!” Rudran was addressing a gullible looking guy.

The guy looked at him from head to toe, unyielding.
“I have to catch the last shuttle…”

Rudran placed a hand on this guy’s shoulder in an aggressive fashion.

“No no, shuttle doesn’t matter anymore. You HAVE to see this interesting thing.” He said, clamping his hand on the guy’s shoulder and applying pressure.

“Ok, ok I’ll come!” The other guy cowered.

Hahaha, just the typical kind of guy – eats like a pig, looks like a huge bull, and still scared of me because I intimidate him, though I am smaller than him. What a sucker.

“It’s just in here man, come on in!” Called Rudran pleasantly. A broom and bucket happened to mark their presence in that closet.
Ah, the tools of the trade!

“See, this broom… It has qualities which you can never imagine. It’s usually used to wipe the floor, but I’ve ascertained that your head would function better than this mop. And I’m not going to waste phenyl on this. I’m going to use blood which oozes out. You pathetic fuck! “

THWACK!

A resounding sound echoed against the walls of the small broom closet. A totally unwary and unprotected skull came into contact with the thick, heavy plastic of a rather sturdy broom, resulting in the cracking of the former.

Hahaha! Take this you over- eating, ass-glued-to-seat, eyes-glued-to-system bastard! You deserve every blow from this thick plastic. Yessssss …

The plastic cracked, and this was when Rudran ceased the pounding.

Rudran announced in general -

“Victim number : Zero, Two… “